23 Days
by gossgoyle
Summary: A documentation of 23 days in which you get to see what The Creeper does that the film doesn't cover. Short and mostly lighthearted stories, although there are a few spots of violence and naughty language.
1. Day 1: Just Another Day

_Author's Note: My second Jeepers Fanfic, my overall THIRD fanfic. I plan on putting together a teeny little collection of uber-short stories documenting different parts of The Creeper's life that noone ever really gets to see. And before any of you complain in angry reviews that "HEY THE CREEPER CANT TALK!" allow me to say: check out the Jeepers Creepers deleted scenes on the DVD. Or if you have a copy of the original Jeepers 2 draft script like I do, if you look there's another speaking deleted scene in there. _

_Enjoy, and remember that these aren't nearly as spooky as my other fanfic-the hat. Or if you'd like, check out my Jeepers fancommunity over at Livejournal dot com. Email, read, and review._

The small bird tilted its head, its eyes cold yet complacent. I lifted my hand again, the dense thread pulling between my fingers, and I thrust the thick needle through almost rubbery flesh. The bird tilted its head again and blinked twice. I couldn't help but grin a little. It fluttered its wings and positioned itself. I paused for a moment, contemplating if I should incorporate any sort of design into this body, and almost jumped as the little crow barked.

"Well then I suppose I shouldn't stitch a design then." I mumbled to myself. And to the crow. It shook its tail as if to say _'You had BETTER not try it'_ and I shook my head in response.

It was a little too quiet, aside from the sharp echoing of water droplets splattering against the rusted floor. I looked up from my work and saw a cobweb in the corner above my head. There was a mist of water sprayed against it. It was inspiring. I needed some music.

I scooted a little on my stool, then reached into a low drawer and pulled out a record. Louis Armstrong. My eyebrows raised in question, asking the bird if the record was to its taste. It stood perched on a high beam, gazing down at me. It shook its head no. The record dropped back into the drawer with a dull clink, and I raised up another one. Johnny Mercer. The crow seemed pleased this time, so I heaved myself up and walked over to the far end of the water-soaked room and dropped the record into the player. Water splashed my bare feet. I shook them off, set the needle, and the record began to play.

The stool was cool underneath me. I picked up the sewing needle delicately with only two claws. The crow barked. I sighed a deep breath of stale air, and began working furiously on my new acquisition again...


	2. Day 2: The Driving Rain

A pale streak of lightning slapped at the clouds in the sky. A tapestry of stars hung overhead, shrouded by the storm. Icy rain began to beat at the hood of my truck as I flew down a deserted black ribbon of asphalt. _The '9 was a big road._

"Fuckin' great." I growled between gritted teeth. I had planned to do a little night flying to pick up some fast food. Now I had to do everything on foot or risk being jolted by a thunderbolt.

The radio wasn't tuning properly, I soon learned. My clawed hand rocketed through the glass and I felt a sharp crack as something broke. It felt good. But what I really needed was something to chase down.

In agitation I slammed on the accelerator and sent the truck into second gear. Another great bellow of thunder rattled the windows. I winced, then opened my mouth and wailed along with the storm. I tore at my hat, opened my window, and began screaming into the driving rain.

From experience, let me tell you that it is the most livening feeling to out-screech the wind.


	3. Day 3: Mercy for the Body

A body was laying in the middle of the road. Smack dab in the middle, limbs sprawled out, clotted blood pooled on either side of a head holier than Jesus. A cloud of glittering flies hovered in circles around it. I couldn't make out much more from the other side of the truck's muddy glass.

The wheels of the car screeched wildly as I lurched to a jerky halt. A hazy cloud remained from the smoking tires, swept by a rancid wind. The body was too far-gone to salvage. The eyes were eaten through, most likely by the ravens, and a few strings of sinew remained hanging like overstretched taffy and draped over the drooping bottom eyelids. The smell was acrid. There was a blackish brown trail of dried blood, cooked by the sun, leading from the mouth and spilling out onto the almost adust pavement. All four limbs were marked by tires and held protruding bones. Intestines spilled out onto the road, ruptured by scavengers and shriveled by the heat.

The car door groaned open, and I poked my head out. The brim of the hat shaded my eyes from the sun, and I could see a trail of glistening pink intestines from the body leading right to where the car was parked. I set my boot down gingerly on the pavement, and felt a slight the crunch. The guts from the body crumbled to powdery dust underneath my foot. It sounded like a car driving over pebbles, or the bitter crunch of the last of winter's snow.

My hat fell to the ground in a gust of wind. I kneeled, scooped the hat up. Held its dingy and faded brim to my chest and gave the body its last rites, still kneeling.

_It just wasn't right to leave someone sitting out like that. _


	4. Day 4: An evening of preparing

Each step sent buds of corn flying like dying insects in the wake of my path. The corn and I were nothing but a dark stain on the horizon, the amber glow of the setting sun contrasting the growing bitter bite of the wind. I, of course, didn't care about the hot or the cold.

The fields were plowed and rowed. Each step was like trotting through a minefield. One wrong move, and I might have had to chase down someone by wing to get a new ankle. I shielded my eyes and kept moving, trying to get to the old barn in the center of the corn It stood there, a drooping frown spread across its rotting face. The roof might not have had the support to hold me, but it was good cover. And of course I was going to try anyway.

Sitting for hours stooped over like some gargoyle sitting on top of a roof is never fun, especially when each icy gust of wind rattles the building so hard you think you're going to crash right on your ass. Not fun at all, lemme tell you. But it's always worth the damn preparation just to get those few minutes chasing down a meal on wheels.


	5. Day 5: Tuning the Radio

"_Noone knows what it's like._

_To be the bad man. _

_To be the sad man. _

_Behind blue eyes._

_Noone knows what it's like._

_To be hated. _

_To be faded. _

_To telling only lies._

_But my dreams._

_They aren't as empty_

_as my conscience seems to be._

_I have hours, _

_Only lonely._

_My love is vengeance _

_That's never free._

_Noone knows what its like._

_To feel these feelings ._

_Like I do._

_And I blame you._

_Noone bites back as hard._

_On their anger._

_None of my pain will,_

_Can show through._

_But my dreams._

_They aren't as empty_

_As my conscience seems to be._

_I have hours._

_Only lonely._

_My love is vengeance _

_That's never free._

_Noone knows how to say _

_That they're sorry._

_But no worry._

_I'm not telling lies._

_But my dreams._

_They aren't as empty_

_As my conscience seems to be._

_I have hours._

_Only lonely._

_My love is vengeance_

_That's never free._

_Noone knows what its like._

_To be the bad man._

_To be the sad man._

_Behind blue eyes."_

I had finally got that damned radio back up and running, although I don't think a fist through the glass was the right way to do it before. I was amazed to find some half decent music on the radio at four in the morning. The song reminded me of....well, ME.

After tuning the new radio out in the middle of Kissel county, I hopped out of the car, boots slapping the ground. Pulled a dingy and faded rag out of my pocket. Spit on it. And began to wipe the bird crap off the front window and roof of the truck.

It's great to have friends, especially in _high places_, but not when they shit on your only car.


	6. Day 6: Black Thoughts

The same little crow sat perched and watched me work again. Its eyes were more curious than anything this time. And it brought friends.

_Probably the same little bastards that shit on the truck._

This time it rained all day and thundered horribly. If the weather kept up, I wouldn't get much hunting done this time around.

_I couldn't remember a time I hadn't gotten done what I needed to get done. It spooked me a little to think what would happen. Another time, another place. Back in the 1800's people were so plentiful..._

Interrupting my hazy thoughts, an icy droplet of water splashed right into my eye. I growled. Turned upwards. Another drop fell down my throat.

_You'd think if I accidentally swallowed a little rainwater I'd turn into "Aquaman" or something, right? Or maybe I'd just melt, or die. Nope. The human body is 80 water. I don't need it, but it ain't gonna kill me either. "Sorry kiddies, I don't go that easily._"

I shifted my weight on the wooden stool, fluttered my wings slightly, and continued to sit sewing in the dark,

in the nude,

in the rain,

_in the ichor and blackness of my own thoughts._


	7. Day 7: SelfNostalgia

The mirror lay fractured on the ground, the shattered fragments looking more and more like icicles hanging in brown snow. Some little shit threw a mirror into my lair. When I find him, I'll be sure to return the favor.

The mirror sent rays of light dancing around the room. It was something different for a change, the light, but it had been so long since I had gotten a good look at myself. Two deep blue eyes, so human. Set into an impossibly inhuman head. Animalistic tendrils wrapped around the inhuman head. I felt like Frankenstein. But a Frankenstein that had a full stomach, and an itchy shirtful of grass and corn from running through the fields all day.

_Really makes you wonder how much of the real me is left, and how much of the other me has taken over._


	8. Day 8: Get a Life

_((Author's note: I decided to try something new with this one. Different format, really, just for kicks. Creeper nostalgia-stuff. I'm really wondering now if these should be rated R rather than PG-13..._

_By the way, I looked back and saw that my other chapters are pretty short, so I decided to do a little extra writing. Enjoy, kiddies!))_

* * *

Does every human think that the Earth is one big garbage can? I would assume so, considering that some little shit threw something into my home today. Someone chucked a kiwi fruit down here. Right through the sewage pipe.

After a little dining out, I settled in for the night and continued on an acquisition from earlier yesterday. Each stitch was as boring as the previous, and I became indisposed after a short while. The little crow was eyeing the kiwi as I sat, so I decided to do something with it before it ended up as more bird shit on my already dingy truck. I had nothing against the button-eyed friend, but I really didn't feel up to cleaning my car.

I adjusted my seat on the stool and looked across my work-desk at the brown fuzzy fruit sitting and staring at me with age-spotted eyes, just as the crow was looking down at me from the rafters.

I couldn't eat the fruit for obvious reasons, but I really needed to do SOMETHING with it. I dropped the needle, scooted on the stool, and picked the furry fruit up between two claws. The crow barked at me, as if to warn me not to eat it.

"Don't worry." I barked back, fingering the almost-warm surface of the kiwi. Inspiration struck.

I grabbed a scalpel off the table and sliced at the skin of the fruit until all that was left was a pulpy green ball of flesh. I rolled the skin in-between my fingers until it was tightly wound and almost stick-like. I jammed the sticks back into the green ball so that it was balanced atop two "legs." I used needles for the arms, and carved out a face with the scalpel. The warm flesh was sticky and damp from the humidity. My fingers felt gooey.

The crow barked at me again, eyeing the little stick doll hungriliy and fluttering its wings. I looked up at it, grimacing, and it settled down. An empty sigh halfheartedly escaped my dry, leathery lips.

Before I had time to waste more time, the crow swooped down from above and devoured my new 'friend.' I shrugged, and continued to work.

_Why the hell did I just waste a half hour of my 23 days carving a fucking KIWI?_

_WHY THE HELL DIDNT I JUST PRESERVE IT AND THROW IT AT SOMEONE LIKE A WEAPON??? _

_WHY THE HELL COULDN'T I THINK OF SOMETHING MORE PRODUCTIVE TO DO WITH MY TIME??????_

It suddenly occurred to me why:

I needed "a life."


End file.
